King of the World
by Frostfyre
Summary: Even with the world at his feet, the prisoner still murmured. Arthas introspective.


**Kind of a "What was he thinking?" type of fic that I wrote up in about thirty minutes. Deviates from Fall of the Lich King (because the Lich King should never die!).**

**"My conscience hath a thousand several tongues, And every tongue brings in a several tale, And every tale condemns me for a **villain**"**

_**-William Shakespeare**_

There were two parts of Arthas Menethil, two uneven- and certainly unequal- parts of him. One, the dominant part (_death knight_) despised the other (_paladin_) with all his hate and fury. However, the Other did not hate its twin. The Other pitied it, in fact.

Yet what the weak, imprisoned part of Arthas Menethil thought or pitied or despaired about was not the Lich King's main concern; indeed, he had learned quickly how to silence the screams in his head. Though the last shred of his soul- locked firmly in the icy, metallic prison of Frostmourne- had occasionally gained control long enough to make the Lich King hesitate when he was younger (_when he was just a death knight, and Ner'zhul was king_), it rarely made even the slightest impression upon him now. It was a remnant of a young, foolish paladin who thought the Light was to be trusted and that he could stop the Undead Scourge.

Less than two years later those very same undead call him their lord and master.

* * *

><p>When he'd had the tainted grain shipments sent to Stranglethorn Vale, and then them arriving at Stormwind City and Orgrimmar, Arthas had wondered what would go through the minds of the living. Those survivors of Lordaeron, he was certain, would blanch and cower as the memories would rise up from wherever they'd been nestled for the past six years. The Forsaken would growl and hiss in an excited frenzy as the one being they hated more than anything else boldly struck the first blow to begin a new war. A war they would lose.<p>

"_They may not,_" murmurs the prisoner. The Lich King dismisses this, however. Those were simply the words of a suicidal fool.

* * *

><p>The green fog rose up from inside the Blight barrels, killing some without having to infect them by the simple matter of the impact crushing them or flinging them to their deaths. The Lich King made the mistake of breathing (<em>it was more a habit than a necessity now<em>) in the toxic fumes, not realizing until too late that this particular concoction affected both living and undead.

He was curious as to how it was created.

His mind acquired a haze, and his legs seemed too weak to carry his weight as he fell to his knees. It was ironic, really, that the Lich King of the Scourge should die by the Blight- modelled after his own Plague- created by a band of defectors. That thought alone, and the happiness of the prisoner, was all that he needed to growl loudly and shove his body back up, an arm around his abdomen.

"_This. Isn't. Over_," he manages to hiss in rage. The prisoner wails at how closer he'd come to freedom only to lose it.

* * *

><p>Later, as he sat upon his throne thinking, scheming (<em>he always planned now, never dove in recklessly as before<em>), about some matter, he feels it. A strange twang in his chest, almost like a rush of- no. That was impossible. The Lich King did not feel such useless, flimsy emotions. Yet there they were; for one split second he was shorter, only as tall as he had been as a child, standing in a cavern with a deep pool of water, Nerubian architecture, and florescent mushrooms. Two hazy figures, humanoid in appearance, stood in front of him but he was only partially aware of their presence.

Guilt, pain, sadness, every single emotion he'd labored to take out of himself suddenly manifested before the second ended and he was once again the cold, stony monster who would soon be the king of Azeroth.

A part of him wondered why he saw only from a child's point of view. Another part wanted to know who those figures were and what they'd done. The prisoner wanted to know when Arthas would finally die.

* * *

><p>It is as he watches Fordring spear the Ashrbinger through his disembodied heart, that Arthas once again considers the possibility that this will kill him. Perhaps it is truly impossible for him to survive without a heart, whether it beats inside his chest or is encased with ice under his citadel. In that moment before the Ashbringer (<em>person and blade<em>) destroyed his heart, the prisoner-Arthas cried out in elation. Death meant so many lives would be saved from his wrath, and the terrible sins he had committed would be atoned for (_he hoped_).

Then the realization that he was still alive struck him as he let out a pain-filled scream, and the prisoner went quiet again as the Lich King ordered the intruders' destruction. Wrath filled him so much that it was forming itself into a spell; a spell that was sure to annihilate any and all beings in his vicinity. Knights of the Ebon Blade, another group of defectors, yet neutral unlike the Forsaken, arrive to defend the unconscious Fordring with their lives if need be.

Arthas wonders where such devotion spouted from.

Thassarian looks back at him and comments on how it is a pity they aren't going to end his life right then and there. Yet Mograine holds him back, saying it is well enough that Fordring is now in their debt.

Arthas has his answer. The prisoner screams at Mograine.

* * *

><p>He remembers, distantly, that he used to love her. Now he's trying to kill her. Jaina fights for her life (<em>not to kill him, he realizes soon in the battle<em>) against him and while he can see the pain in her eyes, it doesn't move him at all. Clinking, clanking sounds outside the door alert him- and possibly her- that the five adventurers had managed to slay Falric and Marwyn. Falric had once been his friend, he knows, when they'd been alive (_when they'd been weak_) but no longer.

Jaina shoots a fireball at him. He swings Frostmourne at her. They both miss.

As the adventurers burst into his Shadow Throne (_the prisoner winces every time they come in here as he sees the dark, twisted mockery of Lordaeron's imperial chamber_) he speaks casually to her. He sees her cringe at his voice, and the prisoner fidgets in discomfort. He doesn't want her to be upset. The Lich King doesn't want her alive.

She shouts a spell and before he knows it he's encased in ice. He lashes out as, muffled, he hears her say her magic would not hold out on him for long. She and the other five race through a hidden passage to up a ramp. "_How do _you_ like being trapped in a prison of ice?_" the paladin asks, a smirk in his voice. The Lich King is too angry at Jaina to answer the paladin-prisoner (_not the only paladin-prisoner any longer..._)

They're all too far away to hear his roar of fury as he finally shatters out of the ice.

* * *

><p>He laughs at the looks of hopelessness and despair on their faces as they see him coming up. They were all his now; his servants (<em>slaves<em>), his champions, his soldiers.

His pet murderers.

They all take out their various weapons, ready to fight to the death against him. He notices that the two who'd touched his heart are among them. He knew he would take additional pleasure in their deaths.

The prisoner screams and attempts to wrest control from his jailer, to escape Frostmourne (_impossible_) and make the Lich King hesitate or, at the very least, give the group's little death knight enough time to make a death gate to save them all.

The prisoner needn't fight, though. The _Skybreaker_ bursts from underneath them, firing her cannons to collapse the tunnel. Arthas takes a small step back to avoid getting crushed (_the prisoner wails again_) by the tons of falling rock.

They're gone.

She's gone.

(_Again_.)

* * *

><p>They attack his own Frozen Throne now, bent on his destruction, aided by their own fury. They're gnats, really, and they obviously don't know he's merely toying with them. Their death knight slams his mockery of Frostmourne- what was it? Ah yes-<em>Shadowmourne<em>- to meet the true Frostmourne before the blades uncross for the time it takes a mortal's heart to beat before meeting each other again. It infuriates the Lich King, as well as amuses him, that Mograine dared think he could create anything to even slightly replicate Frostmourne. Yet this Shadowmourne's wielder is strong, a tall human specialized in the ways of blood. Arthas thinks his name starts with an "M".

Frostmourne sings like it hasn't sang in years, content with the carnage it knows it will soon reap. Arthas just continues his tests for a few more minutes. Their mages and warlocks cast spell after spell, their hunters fire volleys of arrows at val'kyr attempting to drag their comrades off the Frozen Throne, their rogues slink around stabbing things whenever it proves it will be most prudent. Far off, Fordring watches helplessly from inside his own prison as his champions battle the Death God.

The prisoner begs the besiegers to finally end his torment.

They don't.

_"Now for your tragic end!"_

* * *

><p>They lay there, all dead with sightless eyes. Some do not seem to have even realized they were dead when they died. The death knight Arthas had been fighting (<em>sparring, really<em>) with the most has a look of surprise, but that is it. Nothing more. Arthas wonders if they even felt death claim them.

Shadowmourne is broken at the handle.

Fordring struggles against his icy bonds as Arthas brings the Light's champions back to unlife, to destroy what they had sought to protect. The irony delighted the Lich King greatly.

Fordring shouts a plea to the Light, a plea that it only partially grants. His prison is shattered, yes, but Frostmourne is not. The Ashbringer is.

Light cannot defeat Dark.

Life cannot defeat Death.

A paladin lord cannot defeat a death knight king.

Arthas is only partially paying attention to Fordring as he kills him. Behind him, screaming in hate and rage and despair is Fordragon and for the first time in many, many years every part of Arthas Menethil is thinking the same thing.

_Has he finally broken?_ The tones were different, though, and the reactions were diverse; the Lich King was even more pleased than he already was, and the prisoner wailed as Azeroth's last hope breathed his last breath as Frostmourne was ripped out of his chest.

* * *

><p>It is perhaps a decade or so later, with all of the world as his own, that the Lich King finally, truly takes notice of the prisoner. He'd become quiet, nearly all hope ripped away as the world fell under his jailer's control. The Lich King knew the prisoner's heart (<em>he knew it wasn't his own, for that was destroyed long ago<em>) broke as Theramore was all but destroyed, and he cried out as Stormwind was burned yet again. Though the various regions of Azeroth still held their old names- Elwynn Forest, Duskwallow Marsh, Stranglethorn Vale- they were all the same; undead, lifeless, will-less.

The prisoner barely even rattles his cage anymore, and the Lich King practically laughs at that. _"Finally accepted that I am king, have you?"_

_"King of a world empty of everything except for mindless, cannibalistic zombies."_ The prisoner says nothing more, retreating back into a corner. Arthas barely takes the words into consideration apart from laughing cruelly. He was king of the world, quite literally, and he could do as he wished. The prisoner was just being cynical.

A zombie limps towards him, his lower jaw holding on by a thread of flesh.

"My king," it gurgles stupidly, "Dark Portal open. Outland have life."

With that, the Lich King smiles and the prisoner groans.

He wouldn't be king of the world for long; he'd be king of _two _worlds.

**Comments? Thoughts? Just press that little button down there... yeah, that one... and let me know, my wondrous readers.**


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